#i think its a leftover of when i was like. kind of agoraphobic for a good portion of college

[eyesoftxmorrow]

mgmgmggggmmg

[just-watch-me-hachiko]

Without Anesthesia - Chapter Ten -  Cookie and the Wingman Back at Base

Read it on AO3, DeviantArt, or FanFiction.net  Author: Pawpels 

Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug & Cat Noir English, Rated: PG (ish) Slice of Life/Romance/WWII AU Characters: Marinette Dupain-Cheng/Ladybug, Adrien/ Chat Noir Chapters: 10/?, Words: 22572, Status: In-Progress __________________________________________________________ Summary: Marinette Dupain-Cheng works as a field nurse for the French army during World War II, and Adrien Agreste winds up her patient after a battle. Notes: This work contains less descriptions of death, injury, and other wartime discomforts than many of the previous chapters, and may, perhaps, actually be not as upsetting as most of its predecessors.  __________________________________________________________

Early one Saturday, only a few months since she had arrived in England, Marinette finally took it upon herself to become acquainted with the rest of the air force base on which her present workplace resided. In truth, she had no idea whether or not this was something she was allowed to do, but as she seemed to be the only soul around who spoke modern French instead of the Queen's English, she trusted any transgressions would likely be overlooked on account of her perceived ignorance.

That being settled, though, Marinette was quick to note that there didn't seem to be anyone about to accuse her of anything in particular. She had risen at the crack of dawn—and on a weekend no less—so the number of bodies currently roaming about the base could be counted on one hand. She'd passed several serious looking chaps who wore the grey jumpsuits of janitors, and bid them good morning. They responded with only a sleepy grunt before resuming their required tasks and paying her no more mind.

After making rounds through several very exciting, florescent-lit hallways filled with shelves filled with boxes filled with who knows what, Marinette finally arrived at her location of interest: the airplane hanger.

The space was large, and open, and felt vaguely agoraphobic when compared to the cramped and narrow hallways of the hospital. It had a yellowish glow caused by the sunlight streaming in through the upper windows and skylights that seemed to make it stand out from the rest of the base, as though this were the place where the action happened, and everything else was little more than an afterthought.

Marinette wound her way between planes and boxes, stepping carefully over electrical wires, and swerving quickly to avoid beams and wings and ladders leftover from the previous nights repairs. As she perused the base, she kept her hands tightly clasped behind her, as though she were browsing a store in which she could never afford a single item, yet knew a simple touch could bring about an army of salespersons, clamoring to secure a purchase.

When she passed under the wing of a B-26 Marauder, she half expected to see such an associate, but recoiled in surprise when she found instead the hunched back of a soldier, working diligently to repair some part of an engine.

"Oh! Excusez-moi—" she began, and then quickly remembered her location. "Excuse me," she corrected.

"You speak French?" The soldier turned to look at her, and then a toothy, familiar grin spread across his face. "Hey Cookie! Fancy meeting you here." He extended his arm for a shake, and then furrowed his brow. "No, hey, that's not right. What was it again? Marta? Mari? Marinette? Marinette, right? I'm just kidding. I'd never forget a name and a face like yours."

Marinette found herself infinitely flustered by the sudden stream of compliments, but accepted the handshake anyways.

"So you're with the RAF now?" he asked, "Well, of course you are. I knew that. Alya's been asking about you in all of her letters, but I didn't know where to find you."

"Alya's been writing to you?" Marinette asked in shock. In all her time on the base, Marinette had not received a single note from anyone, much less her best friend.

"Sure," Nino replied, with some concern. "Haven't you been getting them?"

"Not a word," Marinette responded, relief and anxiety flooding through her simultaneously. Had Alya really been writing to her nuevo beau, and not her best friend? Certainly there must be some other explanation.

"Well, let's see," Nino mused, "We get our mail handed out to us at supper. Anything like that back in Medical?"

"No," she answered, "I've been checking the boxes, but there's been nothing."

"Well, there's your problem, Doll," he chuckled, "They've probably been sending your stuff our way, since you're company. Let me talk to my constituents, and I'll get back to you with the goods," he winked.

"T-thank you!" she stuttered, wondering what allies he might have in the way of mail services, and whether or not he could really deliver.

"Hey, no problem, Sweetheart. Anything for my best-friend's girl."

Marinette floundered. In truth, the news of the camps dissolution had come so suddenly after her evening with Private Agreste, that she wasn't exactly sure on what kind of terms their relationship stood. Still, she felt that a better question to ask him, than the person who was now offering her a favor.

"How is he?" she asked carefully, hoping that Nino's cheery demeanor indicated good news, but fearing that Adrien's tendency towards injury signaled the worst.

"Aces! A real top-notch pilot, but I guess you've been pretty out of the loop." She nodded, and hung on to his every word. "Got him flying around… Well, I don't know if I'm allowed to say this, but who am I kidding? If we can't trust each other, who can we trust? They got him on his way to Berlin. Going to hit the Germs where it hurts. A little bit of payback for all they've been giving us."

Marinette knew what he meant. The ground had been shaking since she'd arrived. Most of the targets had been factories that had been supplying the war effort, but there was news that civilians had been hit. Whether they were errant bombers, or an intentional change in tactic, she didn't know, but they spelled bad news for the rest of the war. An indiscriminate attack on Berlin would only cement the idea that the battlefield should be extended into the private sector.

Still, she articulated none of this, and chose instead to wish him a speedy return—uninjured, dare she pray.

"And what about you?" she asked, politely. "I recall hearing you'd always wanted to be a pilot." In truth, the rumor had been passed to her on the winds that blew through the mess hall, as it was called, as two soldiers debated the correlation between Nino's career ambitions, and his status as the camp's best wingman.

"They've got me on the ground," he smiled, but with a sadness that indicated he wasn't at all pleased with his answer. "Vertigo. I get dizzy up in the air. Can't have someone like that at the controls, I guess…. Though I still say others here got it worse, and they must be over Berlin by now."

"You don't think…" Marinette began, but he cut her off.

"Hey now. No reason to get a long face. I'll find my way to the sky some day. We've got plenty of war left for me yet." He took a long, hard look at her. "Say, Cookie… Why don't you get yourself a doctor's degree so you can declare me fit to fly?"

"You really think it will last that long?"

"I think you're smart," he winked, "I think you really know your stuff, and I think we're in good hands so long as you're here. As to how long the war will last, I don't know, so maybe hurry up with that, ya hear?"

Marinette smiled—wide, and for the first time in months.

"I will."

That night, a pile of envelopes materialized in Marinette's quarters. Letters from her mother, father, and Alya all came with large chunks of blacked out text, as though the army thought her too delicate to read about the life in Vichy France, or perhaps the lines had been defiled before they had even crossed boarders. She wasn't sure.

Alya spoke about Narvik with such candor that the censorship seemed entirely necessary. She described the movements of the camp in such detail that Marinette was quite sure one of her letters passing into enemy hands would mean the undoing of the entire Allied Forces. Still, she laughed at her friend's observations, and felt a twang of guilt when it became obvious to Alya that despite reading each and every one of Marinette's posts, her letters weren't being received.

Lastly, at the bottom of the stack, were a collection of small, colorful envelopes without an address. It seemed as though—despite traveling the same route, and existing in the same base—no one in the British Company knew the location of the little nurse who had accompanied them from East of Dunkirk. Thus, the letters from Private Agreste had sat unaddressed for as long as they had been in existence.

At first, she poured over each one with the careful attention one might give to a Shakespearian sonnet, checking each line for rhyme and meter and secret meaning, but soon discovered that the letters were little more than ordinary. Some of them contained hints of carefully abated passion, but so much was crossed out, crossed through, or otherwise unsaid that it was hard to tell exactly what was meant by the rest. Many seemed to allude to another set of correspondences, which most certainly had never been delivered. She wondered if those letters might get closer to the heart of the matter, but as she lacked any definite proof, she resolved to ask him about it in person, should they ever chance to meet again.